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Praise for the novels of Robyn Carr

“The Virgin River books are so compelling—I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“Virgin River is sexy, tense, emotional and satisfying. I can’t wait for more!” —New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers

“A thrilling debut of a series that promises much to come.”

—New York Times bestselling author Clive Cussler

“Jennifer is a beautifully drawn character whose interior journey is wonderful to behold.”

—RT Book Reviews on Runaway Mistress

“This is one author who proves a Carr can fly.”

—Book Reviewer on Blue Skies

“Robyn Carr provides readers [with] a powerful, thought-provoking work of contemporary fiction.”

—Midwest Book Review on Deep in the Valley

“A remarkable storyteller…”

—Library Journal

“A warm, wonderful book about women’s friendships, love and family. I adored it!”

—Susan Elizabeth Phillips on The House on Olive Street

“A delightfully funny novel.”

—Midwest Book Review on The Wedding Party

Also available from New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author ROBYN CARR and MIRA Books

Virgin River, Series One VIRGIN RIVER SHELTER MOUNTAIN WHISPERING ROCK

Virgin River, Series Two SECOND CHANCE PASS TEMPTATION RIDGE PARADISE VALLEY

Virgin River, Series Three FORBIDDEN FALLS ANGEL’S PEAK MOONLIGHT ROAD

A VIRGIN RIVER CHRISTMAS

Grace Valley Series DEEP IN THE VALLEY JUST OVER THE MOUNTAIN DOWN BY THE RIVER

Novels NEVER TOO LATE RUNAWAY MISTRESS BLUE SKIES THE WEDDING PARTY THE HOUSE ON OLIVE STREET

Coming Soon

A SUMMER IN SONOMA

available July 2010

VIRGIN

RIVER

ROBYN CARR

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This novel is dedicated to Pam Glenn, Goddess of Midwifery, my friend and sister of my heart.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Pamela SF Glenn, CNM, MS—without whose expertise in midwifery, this story would not have been possible. My deepest gratitude for poring over manuscript after manuscript with sharp eyes and a ruthless pen, keeping me straight. And to Sharon Lampert, RN, WHNP, for sharing her expertise as a women’s health nurse practitioner, but mostly for picking up your cell phone no matter where you were and answering delicate questions about female anatomy and function with directness and honesty. I’m sure there are people out there still talking about what they overheard in the grocery store, beauty parlor and Department of Motor Vehicles. The passion and devotion with which you two professionals serve your women patients is inspiring, and was an enormous help in shaping the character of a dedicated nurse practitioner and certified nurse midwife.

Thanks to Paul Wojcik for sharing your experiences in the United States Marine Corps, and to Richard Gustavson, RN, with twenty-three years in the Navy Reserves. I thank each of you for reading the manuscripts and for offering your invaluable technical input.

Kris Kitna, Chief of Police, Fortuna, California, thanks for valuable information on local law enforcement, not to mention help with details about hunting, fishing and firearms.

Kate Bandy, the best assistant a writer can possibly have, my dear friend of many years, thanks not only for reading copy and offering suggestions, but especially for accompanying me on an exciting research trip to Humboldt County. Without you there I would have floundered…or slipped off a mountain.

Denise and Jeff Nicholl—thanks for reading first drafts, taking exhaustive notes and answering a million questions. Your friendship and support during the whole process mean the world to me. Many thanks to Nellie Valdez-Hathorn for her help with my Spanish.

Other early readers whose input was critical included Jamie Carr, Laurie Fait, Karen Garris, Martha Gould, Pat Hagee, Goldiene Jones and Lori Stoveken—I’m deeply in debt to you for your comments and suggestions.

Huge thanks to Clive Cussler, Debbie Macomber and Carla Neggers for reading and commenting on Virgin River. To take the time, with your busy schedules, is a monumental compliment.

Huge thanks to Valerie Gray, my editor, and Liza Dawson, my agent, for your commitment to helping me craft the best series possible. Your hard work and dedication made all the difference—I’m so grateful.

To Trudy Casey, Tom Fay, Michelle Mazzanti, Kristy Price and the entire staff of Henderson Public Libraries, thank you for the monumental support and encouragement. I’ve never known a more hardworking and motivated group of public servants.

And finally, thanks to Jim Carr for your loving support. And my God, thank you for cooking! I wish I’d known years ago that you could!

One

Mel squinted into the rain and darkness, creeping along the narrow, twisting, muddy, tree-enshrouded road and for the hundredth time thought, am I out of my mind? And then she heard and felt a thump as the right rear wheel of her BMW slipped off the road onto the shoulder and sank into the mud. The car rocked to a stop. She accelerated and heard the wheel spin but she was going nowhere fast.

I am so screwed, was her next thought.

She turned on the dome light and looked at her cell phone. She’d lost the signal an hour ago when she left the freeway and headed up into the mountains. In fact, she’d been having a pretty lively discussion with her sister Joey when the steep hills and unbelievably tall trees blocked the signal and cut them off.

“I cannot believe you’re really doing this,” Joey was saying. “I thought you’d come to your senses. This isn’t you, Mel! You’re not a small-town girl!”

“Yeah? Well, it looks like I’m gonna be—I took the job and sold everything, so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back.”

“You couldn’t just take a leave of absence? Maybe go to a small, private hospital? Try to think this through?”

“I need everything to be different,” Mel said. “No more hospital war zone. I’m just guessing, but I imagine I won’t be called on to deliver a lot of crack babies out here in the woods. The woman said this place, this Virgin River, is calm and quiet and safe.”

“And stuck back in the forest, a million miles from a Starbucks, where you’ll get paid in eggs and pig’s feet and—”

“And none of my patients will be brought in handcuffed, guarded by a corrections officer.” Then Mel took a breath and, unexpectedly, laughed and said, “Pig’s feet? Oh-oh, Joey—I’m going up into the trees again, I might lose you…”

“You wait. You’ll be sorry. You’ll regret this. This is crazy and impetuous and—”

That’s when the signal, blessedly, was lost. And Joey was right—with every additional mile, Mel was doubting herself and her decision to escape into the country.

At every curve the roads had become narrower and the rain a little harder. It was only 6:00 p.m., but it was already dark as pitch; the trees were so dense and tall that even that last bit of afternoon sun had been blocked. Of course there were no lights of any kind along this winding stretch. According to the directions, she should be getting close to the house where she was to meet her new employer, but she didn’t dare get out of her swamped car and walk. She could get lost in these woods and never be seen again.

Instead, she fished the pictures from her briefcase in an attempt to remind herself of a few of the reasons why she had taken this job. She had pictures of a quaint little hamlet of clapboard houses with front porches and dormer windows, an old-fashioned schoolhouse, a steepled church, hollyhocks, rhododendrons and blossoming apple trees in full glory, not to mention the green pastures upon which livestock grazed. There was the Pie and Coffee shop, the Corner Store, a tiny-one-room, freestanding library, and the adorable little cabin in the woods that would be hers, rent free, for the year of her contract.

The town backed up to the amazing sequoia redwoods and national forests that spanned hundreds of miles of wilderness over the Trinity and Shasta mountain ranges. The Virgin River, after which the town was named, was deep, wide, long, and home to huge salmon, sturgeon, steel fish and trout. She’d looked on the Internet at pictures of that part of the world and was easily convinced no more beautiful land existed. Of course, she could see nothing now except rain, mud and darkness.

Ready to get out of Los Angeles, she had put her résumé with the Nurse’s Registry and one of the recruiters brought Virgin River to her attention. The town doctor, she said, was getting old and needed help. A woman from the town, Hope McCrea, was donating the cabin and the first year’s salary. The county was picking up the tab for liability insurance for at least a year to get a practitioner and midwife in this remote, rural part of the world. “I faxed Mrs. McCrea your résumé and letters of recommendation,” the recruiter had said, “and she wants you. Maybe you should go up there and look the place over.”

Mel took Mrs. McCrea’s phone number and called her that evening. Virgin River was far smaller than what she’d had in mind, but after no more than an hour-long conversation with Mrs. McCrea, Mel began effecting her move out of L.A. the very next morning. That was barely two weeks ago.

What they didn’t know at the Registry, nor in Virgin River for that matter, was that Mel had become desperate to get away. Far away. She’d been dreaming of a fresh start, and peace and quiet, for months. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a restful night’s sleep. The dangers of the big city, where crime seemed to be overrunning the neighborhoods, had begun to consume her. Just going to the bank and the store filled her with anxiety; danger seemed to be lurking everywhere. Her work in the three-thousand-bed county hospital and trauma center brought to her care the victims of too many crimes, not to mention the perpetrators of crimes hurt in pursuit or arrest— strapped to hospital beds in wards and in Emergency, guarded by cops. What was left of her spirit was hurting and wounded. And that was nothing to the loneliness of her empty bed.

Her friends begged her to stave off this impulse to run for some unknown small town, but she’d been in grief group, individual counseling and had seen more of the inside of a church in the last nine months than she had in the last ten years, and none of that was helping. The only thing that gave her any peace of mind was fantasizing about running away to some tiny place in the country where people didn’t have to lock their doors, and the only thing you had to fear were the deer getting in the vegetable garden. It seemed like sheer heaven.

But now, sitting in her car looking at the pictures by the dome light, she realized how ridiculous she’d been. Mrs. McCrea told her to pack only durable clothes— jeans and boots—for country medicine. So what had she packed? Her boots were Stuart Weitzmans, Cole Haans and Fryes—and she hadn’t minded paying over a tidy four-fifty for each pair. The jeans she had packed for traipsing out to the ranches and farms were Rock & Republics, Joe’s, Luckys, 7 For All Mankind—they rang up between one-fifty and two-fifty a copy. She’d been paying three hundred bucks a pop to have her hair trimmed and highlighted. After scrimping for years through college and post-grad nursing, once she was a nurse practitioner with a very good salary she discovered she loved nice things. She might have spent most of her workday in scrubs, but when she was out of them, she liked looking good.

She was sure the fish and deer would be very impressed.

In the past half hour she’d only seen one old truck on the road. Mrs. McCrea hadn’t prepared her for how perilous and steep these roads were, filled with hairpin turns and sharp drop-offs, so narrow in some places that it would be a challenge for two cars to pass each other. She was almost relieved when the dark consumed her, for she could at least see approaching headlights around each tight turn. Her car had sunk into the shoulder on the side of the road that was up against the hill and not the ledge where there were no guardrails. Here she sat, lost in the woods and doomed. With a sigh, she turned around and pulled her heavy coat from the top of one of the boxes on the backseat. She hoped Mrs. McCrea would be traversing this road either en route to or from the house where they were to meet. Otherwise, she would probably be spending the night in the car. She still had a couple of apples, some crackers and two cheese rounds in wax. But the damn Diet Coke was gone—she’d have the shakes and a headache by morning from caffeine withdrawal.

No Starbucks. She should have done a better job of stocking up.

She turned off the engine, but left the lights on in case a car came along the narrow road. If she wasn’t rescued, the battery would be dead by morning. She settled back and closed her eyes. A very familiar face drifted into her mind: Mark. Sometimes the longing to see him one more time, to talk to him for just a little while was overwhelming. Forget the grief—she just missed him—missed having a partner to depend on, to wait up for, to wake up beside. An argument over his long hours even seemed appealing. He told her once, “This—you and me—this is forever.”

Forever lasted four years. She was only thirty-two and from now on she would be alone. He was dead. And she was dead inside.

A sharp tapping on the car window got her attention and she had no idea if she’d actually been asleep or just musing. It was the butt of a flashlight that had made the noise and holding it was an old man. The scowl on his face was so jarring that she thought the end she feared might be upon her.

“Missy,” he was saying. “Missy, you’re stuck in the mud.”

She lowered her window and the mist wet her face. “I…I know. I hit a soft shoulder.”

“That piece of crap won’t do you much good around here,” he said.

Piece of crap indeed! It was a new BMW convertible, one of her many attempts to ease the ache of loneliness. “Well, no one told me that! But thank you very much for the insight.”

His thin white hair was plastered to his head and his bushy white eyebrows shot upwards in spikes; the rain glistened on his jacket and dripped off his big nose. “Sit tight, I’ll hook the chain around your bumper and pull you out. You going to the McCrea house?”

Well, that’s what she’d been after—a place where everyone knows everyone else. She wanted to warn him not to scratch the bumper but all she could do was stammer, “Y-yes.”

“It ain’t far. You can follow me after I pull you out.”

“Thanks,” she said.

So, she would have a bed after all. And if Mrs. McCrea had a heart, there would be something to eat and drink. She began to envision the glowing fire in the cottage with the sound of spattering rain on the roof as she hunkered down into a deep, soft bed with lovely linens and quilts wrapped around her. Safe. Secure. At last.

Her car groaned and strained and finally lurched out of the ditch and onto the road. The old man pulled her several feet until she was on solid ground, then he stopped to remove the chain. He tossed it into the back of the truck and motioned for her to follow him. No argument there—if she got stuck again, he’d be right there to pull her out. Along she went, right behind him, using lots of window cleaner with her wipers to keep the mud he splattered from completely obscuring her vision.

In less than five minutes, the blinker on the truck was flashing and she followed him as he made a right turn at a mailbox. The drive was short and bumpy, the road full of potholes, but it quickly opened up into a clearing. The truck made a wide circle in the clearing so he could leave again, which left Mel to pull right up to…a hovel!

This was no adorable little cottage. It was an A-frame with a porch all right, but it looked as though the porch was only attached on one side while the other end had broken away and listed downward. The shingles were black with rain and age and there was a board nailed over one of the windows. It was not lit within or without; there was no friendly curl of smoke coming from the chimney.

The pictures were lying on the seat beside her. She blasted on her horn and jumped immediately out of the car, clutching the pictures and pulling the hood of her wool jacket over her head. She ran to the truck. He rolled down his window and looked at her as if she had a screw loose. “Are you sure this is the McCrea cottage?”

“Yup.”

She showed him the picture of the cute little A-frame cottage with Adirondack chairs on the porch and hanging pots filled with colorful flowers decorating the front of the house. It was bathed in sunlight in the picture.

“Hmm,” he said. “Been awhile since she looked like that.”

“I wasn’t told that. She said I could have the house rent free for a year, plus salary. I’m supposed to help out the doctor in this town. But this—?”

“Didn’t know the doc needed help. He didn’t hire you, did he?” he asked.

“No. I was told he was getting too old to keep up with the demands of the town and they needed another doctor, but that I’d do for a year or so.”

“Do what?”

She raised her voice to be heard above the rain. “I’m a nurse practitioner. And certified nurse midwife.”

That seemed to amuse him. “That a fact?”

“You know the doctor?” she asked.

“Everybody knows everybody. Seems like you shoulda come up here and look the place over and meet the doc before making up your mind.”

“Yeah, seems like,” she said in some self-recrimination. “Let me get my purse—give you some money for pulling me out of the—” But he was already waving her off.

“Don’t want your money. People up here don’t have money to be throwing around for neighborly help. So,” he said with humor, lifting one of those wild white eyebrows, “looks like she got one over on you. That place’s been empty for years now.” He chuckled. “Rent free! Hah!”

Headlights bounced into the clearing as an old Suburban came up the drive. Once it arrived the old man said, “There she is. Good luck.” And then he laughed. Actually, he cackled as he drove out of the clearing.

Mel stuffed the picture under her jacket and stood in the rain near her car as the Suburban parked. She could’ve gone to the porch to get out of the elements, but it didn’t look quite safe.

The Suburban’s frame was jacked up and the tires were huge—no way that thing was getting stuck in the mud. It was pretty well splashed up, but it was still obvious it was an older model. The driver trained the lights on the cottage and left them on as the door opened. Out of the SUV climbed this itty bitty elderly woman with thick, springy white hair and black framed glasses too big for her face. She was wearing rubber boots and was swallowed up by a rain slicker, but she couldn’t have been five feet tall. She pitched a cigarette into the mud and, wearing a huge toothy smile, she approached Mel. “Welcome!” she said gleefully in the same deep, throaty voice Mel recognized from their phone conversation.

“Welcome?” Mel mimicked. “Welcome?” She pulled the picture from the inside of her jacket and flashed it at the woman. “This is not that!”

Completely unruffled, Mrs. McCrea said, “Yeah, the place could use a little sprucing up. I meant to get over here yesterday, but the day got away from me.”

“Sprucing up? Mrs. McCrea, it’s falling down! You said it was adorable! Precious is what you said!”

“My word,” Mrs. McCrea said. “They didn’t tell me at the Registry that you were so melodramatic.”

“And they didn’t tell me you were delusional!”

“Now, now, that kind of talk isn’t going to get us anywhere. Do you want to stand in the rain or go inside and see what we have?”

“I’d frankly like to turn around and drive right out of this place, but I don’t think I’d get very far without four-wheel-drive. Another little thing you might’ve mentioned.”

Without comment, the little white-haired sprite stomped up the three steps and onto the porch of the cabin. She didn’t use a key to unlock the door but had to apply a firm shoulder to get it to open. “Swollen from the rain,” she said in her gravelly voice, then disappeared inside.

Mel followed, but didn’t stomp on the porch as Mrs. McCrea had. Rather, she tested it gingerly. It had a dangerous slant, but appeared to be solid in front of the door. A light went on inside just as Mel reached the door. Immediately following the dim light came a cloud of choking dust as Mrs. McCrea shook out the tablecloth. It sent Mel back out onto the porch, coughing. Once she recovered, she took a deep breath of the cold, moist air and ventured back inside.

Mrs. McCrea seemed to be busy trying to put things right, despite the filth in the place. She was pushing chairs up to the table, blowing dust off lampshades, propping books on the shelf with bookends. Mel had a look around, but only to satisfy her curiosity as to how horrid it was, because there was no way she was staying. There was a faded floral couch, a matching chair and ottoman, an old chest that served as a coffee table and a brick and board bookcase, the boards unfinished. Only a few steps away, divided from the living room by a counter, was the small kitchen. It hadn’t seen a cleaning since the last person made dinner—presumably years ago. The refrigerator and oven doors stood open, as did most of the cupboard doors. The sink was full of pots and dishes; there were stacks of dusty dishes and plenty of cups and glasses in the cupboards, all too dirty to use.

“I’m sorry, this is just unacceptable,” Mel said loudly.

“It’s a little dirt is all.”

“There’s a bird’s nest in the oven!” Mel exclaimed, completely beside herself.

Mrs. McCrea clomped into the kitchen in her muddy rubber boots, reached into the open oven door and plucked out the bird’s nest. She went to the front door and pitched it out into the yard. She shoved her glasses up on her nose as she regarded Mel. “No more bird’s nest,” she said in a voice that suggested Mel was trying her patience.

“Look, I’m not sure I’d make it. That old man in the pickup had to pull me out of the mud just down the road. I can’t stay here, Mrs. McCrea—it’s out of the question. Plus, I’m starving and I don’t have any food with me.” She laughed hollowly. “You said there would be adequate housing ready for me, and I took you to mean clean and stocked with enough food to get me through a couple of days till I could shop for myself. But this—”

“You have a contract,” Mrs. McCrea pointed out.

“So do you,” Mel said. “I don’t think you could get anyone to agree this is adequate or ready.”

Hope looked up. “It’s not leaking, that’s a good sign.”

“Not quite good enough, I’m afraid.”

“That damned Cheryl Creighton was supposed to be down here to give it a good cleaning, but she had excuses three days in a row. Been drinking again is my guess. I got some bedding in the truck and I’ll take you to get dinner. It’ll look better in the morning.”

“Isn’t there some place else I can stay tonight? A bed-and-breakfast? A motel on the highway?”

“Bed-and-breakfast?” she asked with a laugh. “This look like a tourist spot to you? The highway’s an hour off and this is no ordinary rain. I have a big house with no room in it—filled to the top with junk. They’re gonna light a match to it when I die. It would take all night to clear off the couch.”

“There must be something…”

“Nearest thing is Jo Ellen’s place—she’s got a nice spare room over the garage she lets out sometimes. But you wouldn’t want to stay there. That husband of hers can be a handful. He’s been slapped down by more than one woman in Virgin River—and it’d be a bad thing, you in your nightie, Jo Ellen sound asleep and him getting ideas. He’s a groper, that one.”

Oh, God, Mel thought. Every second this place sounded worse and worse.

“Tell you what we’ll do, girl. I’ll light the hot water heater, turn on the refrigerator and heater, then we’ll go get a hot meal.”

“At the Pie and Coffee shop?”

“That place closed down three years back,” she said.

“But you sent me a picture of it—like it was where I’d be getting lunch or dinner for the next year!”

“Details. Lord, you do get yourself worked up.”

“Worked up!?”

“Go jump in the truck and I’ll be right along,” she commanded. Then ignoring Mel completely, she went to the refrigerator and stooped to plug it in. The light went on immediately and Mrs. McCrea reached inside to adjust the temperature and close the door. The refrigerator’s motor made an unhealthy grinding sound as it fired up.

Mel went to the Suburban as she’d been told, but it was so high off the ground she found herself grabbing the inside of the open door and nearly crawling inside. She felt a lot safer here than in the house where her hostess would be lighting a gas water heater. She had a passing thought that if it blew up and destroyed the cabin, they could cut their loses here and now.

Once in the passenger seat, she looked over her shoulder to see the back of the Suburban was full of pillows, blankets and boxes. Supplies for the falling-down house, she assumed. Well, if she couldn’t get out of here tonight, she could sleep in her car if she had to. She wouldn’t freeze to death with all those blankets. But then, at first light…

A few minutes passed and then Mrs. McCrea came out of the cottage and pulled the door closed. No locking up. Mel was impressed by the agility with which the old woman got herself into the Suburban. She put a foot on the step, grabbed the handle above the door with one hand, the armrest with the other and bounced herself right into the seat. She had a rather large pillow to sit on and her seat was pushed way up so she could reach the pedals. Without a word, she put the vehicle in gear and expertly backed down the narrow drive out onto the road.

“When we talked a couple weeks ago, you said you were pretty tough,” Mrs. McCrea reminded her.

“I am. I’ve been in charge of a women’s wing at a three-thousand-bed county hospital for the past two years. We got all the most challenging cases and hopeless patients, and did a damn fine job if I do say so myself. Before that, I spent years in the emergency room in downtown L.A., a very tough place by anyone’s standards. By tough, I thought you meant medically. I didn’t know you meant I should be an experienced frontier woman.”

“Lord, you do go on. You’ll feel better after some food.”

“I hope so,” Mel replied. But, inside she was saying, I can’t stay here. This was crazy, I’m admitting it and getting the hell out of here. The only thing she really dreaded was owning up to Joey.

They didn’t talk during the drive. In Mel’s mind there wasn’t much to say. Plus, she was fascinated by the ease, speed and finesse with which Ms. McCrea handled the big Suburban, bouncing down the tree-lined road and around the tight curves in the pouring rain.

She had thought this might be a respite from pain and loneliness and fear. A relief from the stress of patients who were either the perpetrators or victims of crimes, or devastatingly poor and without resources or hope. When she saw the pictures of the cute little town, it was easy to imagine a homey place where people needed her. She saw herself blooming under the grateful thanks of rosy-cheeked country patients. Meaningful work was the one thing that had always cut through any troubling personal issues. Not to mention the lift of escaping the smog and traffic and getting back to nature in the pristine beauty of the forest. She just never thought she’d be getting this far back to nature.

The prospect of delivering babies for mostly uninsured women in rural Virgin River had closed the deal. Working as a nurse practitioner was satisfying, but midwifery was her true calling.

Joey was her only family now; she wanted Mel to come to Colorado Springs and stay with her, her husband Bill and their three children. But Mel hadn’t wanted to trade one city for another, even though Colorado Springs was considerably smaller. Now, in the absence of any better ideas, she would be forced to look for work there.

As they passed through what seemed to be a town, she grimaced again. “Is this the town? Because this wasn’t in the pictures you sent me, either.”

“Virgin River,” she said. “Such as it is. Looks a lot better in daylight, that’s for sure. Damn, this is a big rain. March always brings us this nasty weather. That’s the doc’s house there, where he sees patients when they come to him. He makes a lot of house calls, too. The library,” she pointed. “Open Tuesdays.”

They passed a pleasant-looking steepled church, which appeared to be boarded up, but at least she recognized it. There was the store, much older and more worn, the proprietor just locking the front door for the night. A dozen houses lined the street—small and old. “Where’s the schoolhouse?” Mel asked.

“What schoolhouse?” Mrs. McCrea countered.

“The one in the picture you sent to the recruiter.”

“Hmm. Can’t imagine where I got that. We don’t have a school. Yet.”

“God,” Mel groaned.

The street was wide, but dark and vacant—there were no streetlights. The old woman must have gone through one of her ancient photo albums to come up with the pictures. Or maybe she snapped a few of another town.

Across the street from the doctor’s house Mrs. McCrea pulled up to the front of what looked like a large cabin with a wide porch and big yard, but the neon sign in the window that said Open clued her in to the fact that it was a tavern or café. “Come on,” Mrs. McCrea said. “Let’s warm up your belly and your mood.”

“Thank you,” Mel said, trying to be polite. She was starving and didn’t want an attitude to cost her her dinner, though she wasn’t optimistic that anything but her stomach would be warm. She looked at her watch. Seven o’clock.

Mrs. McCrea shook out her slicker on the porch before going in, but Mel wasn’t wearing a raincoat. Nor did she have an umbrella. Her jacket was now drenched and she smelled like wet sheep.

Once inside, she was rather pleasantly surprised. It was dark and woody with a fire ablaze in a big stone hearth. The polished wood floors were shiny clean and something smelled good, edible. Over a long bar, above rows of shelved liquor bottles, was a huge mounted fish; on another wall, a bearskin so big it covered half the wall. Over the door, a stag’s head. Whew. A hunting lodge? There were about a dozen tables sans tablecloths and only one customer at the bar; the old man who had pulled her out of the mud sat slumped over a drink.

Behind the bar stood a tall man in a plaid shirt with sleeves rolled up, polishing a glass with a towel. He looked to be in his late thirties and wore his brown hair cropped close. He lifted expressive brows and his chin in greeting as they entered. Then his lips curved in a smile.

“Sit here,” Hope McCrea said, indicating a table near the fire. “I’ll get you something.”

Mel took off her coat and hung it over the chair back near the fire to dry. She warmed herself, vigorously rubbing her icy hands together in front of the flames. This was more what she had expected—a cozy, clean cabin, a blazing fire, a meal ready on the stove. She could do without the dead animals, but this is what you get in hunting country.

“Here,” the old woman said, pressing a small glass of amber liquid into her hand. “This’ll warm you up. Jack’s got some stew on the stove and bread in the warmer. We’ll fix you up.”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Brandy. You gonna be able to get that down?”

“Damn right,” she said, taking a grateful sip and feeling it burn its way down to her empty belly. She let her eyes drift closed for a moment, appreciating the unexpected fine quality. She looked back at the bar, but the bartender had disappeared. “That guy,” she finally said, indicating the only customer. “He pulled me out of the ditch.”

“Doc Mullins,” she explained. “You might as well meet him right now, if you’re okay to leave the fire.”

“Why bother?” Mel said. “I told you—I’m not staying.”

“Fine,” the old woman said tiredly. “Then you can say hello and goodbye all at once. Come on.” She turned and walked toward the old doctor and with a weary sigh, Mel followed. “Doc, this is Melinda Monroe, in case you didn’t catch the name before. Miss Monroe, meet Doc Mullins.”

He looked up from his drink with rheumy eyes and regarded her, but his arthritic hands never left his glass. He gave another single nod.

“Thanks again,” Mel said. “For pulling me out.”

The old doctor gave a nod, looking back to his drink.

So much for the friendly small-town atmosphere, she thought. Mrs. McCrea was walking back to the fireplace. She plunked herself down at the table.

“Excuse me,” Mel said to the doctor. He turned his gaze toward her, but his bushy white brows were drawn together in a definite scowl, peering over the top of his glasses. His white hair was so thin over his freckled scalp that it almost appeared he had more hair on his brows than his head. “Pleasure to meet you. So, you wanted help up here?” He just seemed to glare at her. “You didn’t want help? Which is it?”

“I don’t much need any help,” he told her gruffly. “But that old woman’s been trying to get a doc to replace me for years. She’s driven.”

“And why is that?” Mel bravely asked.

“Couldn’t imagine.” He looked back into his glass. “Maybe she just doesn’t like me. Since I don’t like her that much, makes no difference.”

The bartender, and presumably proprietor, was carrying a steaming bowl out of the back, but he paused at the end of the bar and watched as Mel conversed with the old doctor.

“Well, no worries, mate,” Mel responded, “I’m not staying. It was grossly misrepresented. I’ll be leaving in the morning, as soon as the rain lets up.”

“Wasted your time, did you?” he asked, not looking at her.

“Apparently. It’s bad enough the place isn’t what I was told it would be, but how about the complication that you have no use for a practitioner or midwife?”

“There you go,” he said.

Mel sighed. She hoped she could find a decent job in Colorado.

A young man, a teenager, brought a rack of glasses from the kitchen into the bar. He sported much the same look as the bartender with his short cropped, thick brown hair, flannel shirt and jeans. Handsome kid, she thought, taking in his strong jaw, straight nose, heavy brows. As he was about to put the rack under the bar, he stopped short, staring at Mel in surprise. His eyes grew wide; his mouth dropped open for a second. She tilted her head slightly and treated him to a smile. He closed his mouth slowly, but stood frozen, holding the glasses.

Mel turned away from the boy and the doctor. She headed for Mrs. McCrea’s table. The bartender set down a bowl along with a napkin and utensils, then stood there awaiting her. He held the chair for her. Close up, she saw how big a guy he was—over six feet and broad-shouldered. “Miserable weather for your first night in Virgin River,” he said pleasantly.

“Miss Melinda Monroe, this is Jack Sheridan. Jack, Miss Monroe.”

Mel felt the urge to correct them—tell them it was Mrs. But she didn’t because she didn’t want to explain that there was no longer a Mr. Monroe, a Dr. Monroe in fact. So she said, “Pleased to meet you. Thank you,” she added, accepting the stew.

“This is a beautiful place, when the weather cooperates,” he said.

“I’m sure it is,” she muttered, not looking at him.

“You should give it a day or two,” he suggested.

She dipped her spoon into the stew and gave it a taste. He hovered near the table for a moment. Then she looked up at him and said in some surprise, “This is delicious.”

“Squirrel,” he said.

She choked.

“Just kidding,” he said, grinning at her. “Beef. Corn fed.”

“Forgive me if my sense of humor is a bit off,” she replied irritably. “It’s been a long and rather arduous day.”

“Has it now?” he said. “Good thing I got the cork out of the Remy, then.” He went back behind the bar and she looked over her shoulder at him. He seemed to confer briefly and quietly with the young man, who continued to stare at her. His son, Mel decided.

“I don’t know that you have to be quite so pissy,” Mrs. McCrea said. “I didn’t sense any of this attitude when we talked on the phone.” She dug into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She shook one out and lit it—this explained the gravelly voice.

“Do you have to smoke?” Mel asked her.

“Unfortunately, I do,” Mrs. McCrea said, taking a long drag.

Mel just shook her head in frustration. She held her tongue. It was settled, she was leaving in the morning and would have to sleep in the car, so why exacerbate things by continuing to complain? Hope McCrea had certainly gotten the message by now. Mel ate the delicious stew, sipped the brandy, and felt a bit more secure once her belly was full and her head a tad light. There, she thought. That is better. I can make it through the night in this dump. God knows, I’ve been through worse.

It had been nine months since her husband, Mark, had stopped off at a convenience store after working a long night shift in the emergency room. He had wanted milk for his cereal. But what he got was three bullets, point-blank to the chest, killing him instantly. There had been a robbery in progress, right in a store he and Mel dropped into at least three times a week. It had ended the life she loved.

Spending the night in her car, in the rain, would be nothing by comparison.

***

Jack delivered a second Remy Martin to Miss Monroe, but she had declined a second serving of stew. He stayed behind the bar while she ate, drank and seemed to glower at Hope as she smoked. It caused him to chuckle to himself. The girl had a little spirit. What she also had was looks. Petite, blond, flashing blue eyes, a small heart-shaped mouth, and a backside in a pair of jeans that was just awesome. When the women left, he said to Doc Mullins, “Thanks a lot. You could have cut the girl some slack. We haven’t had anything pretty to look at around here since Bradley’s old golden retriever died last fall.”

“Humph,” the doctor said.

Ricky came behind the bar and stood next to Jack. “Yeah,” he heartily agreed. “Holy God, Doc. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you think of the rest of us sometimes?”

“Down boy,” Jack laughed, draping an arm over his shoulders. “She’s outta your league.”

“Yeah? She’s outta yours, too,” Rick said, grinning.

“You can shove off anytime. There isn’t going to be anyone out tonight,” Jack told Rick. “Take a little of that stew home to your grandma.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

When Rick had gone, Jack hovered over Doc and said, “If you had a little help, you could do more fishing.”

“Don’t need help, thanks,” he said.

“Oh, there’s that again,” Jack said with a smile. Any suggestion Hope had made of getting Doc some help was stubbornly rebuffed. Doc might be the most obstinate and pigheaded man in town. He was also old, arthritic and seemed to be slowing down more each year.

“Hit me again,” the doctor said.

“I thought we had a deal,” Jack said.

“Half, then. This goddamn rain is killing me. My bones are cold.” He looked up at Jack. “I did pull that little strumpet out of the ditch in the freezing rain.”

“She’s probably not a strumpet,” Jack said. “I could never be that lucky.” Jack tipped the bottle of bourbon over the old man’s glass and gave him a shot. But then he put the bottle on the shelf. It was his habit to look out for Doc and left unchecked, he might have a bit too much. He didn’t feel like going out in the rain to be sure Doc got across the street all right. Doc didn’t keep a supply at home, doing his drinking only at Jack’s, which kept it under control.

Couldn’t blame the old boy—he was overworked and lonely. Not to mention prickly.

“You could’ve offered the girl a warm place to sleep,” Jack said. “It’s pretty clear Hope didn’t get that old cabin straight for her.”

“Don’t feel up to company,” he said. Then Doc lifted his gaze to Jack’s face. “Seems you’re more interested than me, anyway.”

“Didn’t really look like she’d trust anyone around here at the moment,” Jack said. “Cute little thing, though, huh?”

“Can’t say I noticed,” he said. He took a sip and then said, “Didn’t look like she had the muscle for the job, anyway.”

Jack laughed, “Thought you didn’t notice?” But he had noticed. She was maybe five-three. Hundred and ten pounds. Soft, curling blond hair that, when damp, curled even more. Eyes that could go from kind of sad to feisty in an instant. He enjoyed that little spark when she had snapped at him that she didn’t feel particularly humorous. And when she took on Doc, there was a light that suggested she could handle all kinds of things just fine. But the best part was that mouth—that little pink heart-shaped mouth. Or maybe it was the fanny.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “You could’ve cut a guy a break and been a little friendlier. Improve the scenery around here.

Two

When Mel and Mrs. McCrea returned to the cabin, it had warmed up inside. Of course, it hadn’t gotten any cleaner. Mel shuddered at the filth and Mrs. McCrea said, “I had no idea, when I talked to you, that you were so prissy.”

“Well, I’m not. A labor and delivery unit in a big hospital like the one I came from is pretty unglamorous.” And it struck Mel as curious that she had felt more in control in that chaotic, sometimes horrific environment than in this far simpler one. She decided it was the apparent deception that was throwing her for a loop. That and the fact that however gritty things got in L&D, she always had a comfortable and clean house to go home to.

Hope left her in possession of pillows, blankets, quilts and towels, and Mel decided it made more sense to brave the dirt than the cold. Retrieving only one suitcase from her car, she put on a sweatsuit, heavy socks, and made herself a bed on the dusty old couch. The mattress, stained and sagging, looked too frightening.

She rolled herself up in the quilts like a burrito and huddled down into the soft, musty cushions. The bathroom light was left on with the door pulled slightly closed, in case she had to get up in the night. And thanks to two brandies, the long drive and the stress of spoiled expectations, she fell into a deep sleep, for once not disturbed by anxiety or nightmares. The softly drumming rain on the roof was like a lullaby, rocking her to sleep. With the dim light of morning on her face, she woke to find she hadn’t moved a muscle all night, but lay swaddled and still. Rested. Her head empty.

It was a rare thing.

Disbelieving, she lay there for a while. Yes, she thought. Though it doesn’t seem possible under the circumstances, I feel good. Then Mark’s face swam before her eyes and she thought, what do you expect? You summoned it!

She further thought, there’s nowhere you can go to escape grief. Why try?

There was a time she had been so content, especially waking up in the morning. She had this weird and funny gift—music in her head. Every morning, the first thing she noticed was a song, clear as if the radio was on. Always a different one. Although in the bright light of day Mel couldn’t play an instrument or carry a tune in a bucket, she awoke each morning humming along with a melody. Awakened by her off-key humming, Mark would raise up on an elbow, lean over her, grinning, and wait for her eyes to pop open. He would say, “What is it today?”

“‘Begin the Beguine,’” she’d answer. Or, “‘Deep Purple.’” And he’d laugh and laugh.

The music in her head went away with his death.

She sat up, quilts wrapped around her, and the morning light emphasized the dirty cabin that surrounded her. The sound of chirping birds brought her to her feet and to the cabin’s front door. She opened it and greeted a morning that was bright and clear. She stepped out onto the porch, still wrapped in her quilts, and looked up—the pines, firs and ponderosa were so tall in daylight—rising fifty to sixty feet above the cabin, some considerably taller. They were still dripping from a rain that had washed them clean. Green pinecones were hanging from branches—pinecones so large that if a green one fell on your head, it might cause a concussion. Beneath them, thick, lush green fern—she counted four different types from wide-branched floppy fans to those as delicate as lace. Everything looked fresh and healthy. Birds sang and danced from limb to limb, and she looked into a sky that was an azure blue the likes of which she hadn’t seen in Los Angeles in ten years. A puffy white cloud floated aimlessly above and an eagle, wings spread wide, soared overhead and disappeared behind the trees.

She inhaled a deep breath of the crisp spring morning. Ah, she thought. Too bad the cabin, town and old doctor didn’t work out, because the land was lovely. Unspoiled. Invigorating.

She heard a crack and furrowed her brow. Without warning the end of the porch that had been sagging gave out completely, collapsing at the weak end which created a big slide, knocking her off her feet and splat! Right into a deep, wet, muddy hole. There she lay, a filthy, wet, ice cold burrito in her quilt. “Crap,” she said, rolling out of the quilt to crawl back up the porch, still attached at the starboard end. And into the house.

She packed up her suitcase. It was over.

At least the roads were now passable, and in the light of day she was safe from hitting a soft shoulder and sinking out of sight. Reasoning she wouldn’t get far without at least coffee, she headed back toward the town, even though her instincts told her to run for her life, get coffee somewhere down the road. She didn’t expect that bar to be open early in the morning, but her options seemed few. She might be desperate enough to bang on the old doctor’s door and beg a cup of coffee from him, though facing his grimace again wasn’t an inviting thought. But the doc’s house looked closed up tighter than a tick. There didn’t seem to be any action around Jack’s or the store across the street, but a complete caffeine junkie, she tried the door at the bar and it swung open.

The fire was lit. The room, though brighter than the night before, was just as welcoming. It was large and comfortable—even with the animal trophies on the walls. Then she was startled to see a huge bald man with an earring glittering in one ear come from the back to stand behind the bar. He wore a black T-shirt stretched tight over his massive chest, the bottom of a big blue tattoo peeking out beneath one of the snug sleeves. If she hadn’t gasped from the sheer size of him, she might’ve from the unpleasant expression on his face. His dark bushy brows were drawn together and he braced two hands on the bar. “Help you?” he asked.

“Um… Coffee?” she asked.

He turned around to grab a mug. He put it on the bar and poured from a handy pot. She thought about grabbing it and fleeing to a table, but she frankly didn’t like the look of him, didn’t want to insult him, so she went to the bar and sat up on the stool where her coffee waited. “Thanks,” she said meekly.

He just gave a nod and backed away from the bar a bit, leaning against the counter behind him with his huge arms crossed over his chest. He reminded her of a nightclub bouncer or bodyguard. Jesse Ventura with attitude.

She took a sip of the rich, hot brew. Her appreciation for a dynamite cup of coffee surpassed any other comfort in her life and she said, “Ah. Delicious.” No comment from the big man. Just as well, she thought. She didn’t feel like talking anyway.

A few minutes passed in what seemed like oddly companionable silence when the side door to the bar opened and in came Jack, his arms laden with firewood. When he saw her, he grinned, showing a nice batch of even, white teeth. Under the weight of the wood his biceps strained against his blue denim shirt, the width of his shoulders accentuated a narrow waist. A little light brown chest hair peeked out of the opened collar and his clean-shaven face made her realize that the night before his cheeks and chin had been slightly shadowed by the day’s growth of beard.

“Well, now,” he said. “Good morning.” He took the firewood to the hearth and when he stooped to stack it there, she couldn’t help but notice a broad, muscular back and a perfect male butt. Men around here must get a pretty good workout just getting through the rugged days of rural living.

The big bald man lifted the pot to refill her cup when Jack said, “I got that, Preacher.”

Jack came behind the bar and “Preacher” went through the door to the kitchen. Jack filled her cup.

“Preacher?” she asked in a near whisper.

“His name is actually John Middleton, but he got that nickname way back. If you called out to John, he wouldn’t even turn around.”

“Why do you call him that?” she asked.

“Ah, he’s pretty straight-laced. Hardly ever swears, never see him drunk, doesn’t bother women.”

“He’s a little frightening looking,” she said, still keeping her voice low.

“Nah. He’s a pussycat,” Jack said. “How was your night?”

“Passable,” she said with a shrug. “I didn’t think I could make it out of town without a cup of coffee.”

“You must be ready to kill Hope. She didn’t even have coffee for you?”

“‘Fraid not.”

“I’m sorry about this, Miss Monroe. You should’ve had a better welcome than this. I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of this place. How about some eggs?” He gestured over his shoulder. “He’s a fine cook.”

“I won’t say no,” she said. She felt that odd sensation of a smile on her lips. “And call me Mel.”

“Short for Melinda,” he said.

Jack hollered through the door to the kitchen. “Preacher. How about some breakfast for the lady?” Back at the bar, he said, “Well, the least we can do is send you off with a good meal—if you can’t be convinced to stay a couple of days.”

“Sorry,” she said. “That cabin. It’s uninhabitable. Mrs. McCrea said something about someone who was supposed to clean it—but she’s drinking? I think I got that right.”

“That would be Cheryl. Has a bit of a problem that way, I’m afraid. She should’ve called someone else. Plenty of women around here who’d take a little work.”

“Well, it’s irrelevant now,” Mel said, sipping again. “Jack, this is the best coffee I’ve ever had. Either that, or I had a bad couple of days and am easily impressed by some creature comforts.”

“No, it’s really that good.” He frowned and reached out, lifting a lock of her hair off her shoulder. “Do you have mud in your hair?”

“Probably,” she said. “I was standing on the porch, appreciating the beauty of this nice spring morning when one end gave way and spilled me right into a big, nasty mud puddle. And I wasn’t brave enough to try out the shower—it’s beyond filthy. But I thought I got it all off.”

“Oh, man,” he said, surprising her with a big laugh. “Could you have had a worse day? If you’d like, I have a shower in my quarters—clean as a whistle.” He grinned again. “Towels even smell like Downy.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll just move on. When I get closer to the coast, I’m going to get a hotel room and have a quiet, warm, clean evening. Maybe rent a movie.”

“Sounds nice,” he said. “Then back to Los Angeles?”

She shrugged. “No,” she said. She couldn’t do that. Everything from the hospital to the house would conjure sweet memories and bring her grief to the surface. She just couldn’t move on as long as she stayed in L.A. Besides, now there was nothing there for her anymore. “It’s time for a change. But it turns out this was too big a change. Have you lived here all your life?”

“Me? No. Only a little while. I grew up in Sacramento. I was looking for a good place to fish and stayed on. I converted this cabin into a bar and grill and built on an addition to live in. Small, but comfortable. Preacher has a room upstairs, over the kitchen.”

“What in the world made you stay on? I’m not trying to be flip—there doesn’t seem to be that much of a town here.”

“If you had the time, I’d show you. This is incredible country. Over six hundred people live in and around town. Lots of people from the cities have cabins up and down the Virgin River—it’s peaceful and the fishing is excellent. We don’t have much tourist traffic through town, but fishermen come in here pretty regularly and some hunters pass through during the season. Preacher is known for his cooking, and it’s the only place in town to get a beer. We’re right up against some redwoods—awesome. Majestic. Lots of campers and hikers around the national forests all through the summer. And the sky and air out here—you just can’t find anything like it in a city.”

“And your son works here with you?”

“Son? Oh,” he laughed. “Ricky? He’s a kid from town. He works around the bar after school most days. Good kid.”

“You have family?” she asked.

“Sisters and nieces in Sacramento. My dad is still there, but I lost my mother a few years back.”

Preacher came out of the kitchen holding a steaming plate with a napkin. As he sat it before Mel, Jack reached beneath the bar and produced silverware and a napkin. On the plate was a luscious-looking cheese omelet with peppers, sausage patties, fruit, home fries, wheat toast. Ice water appeared; her coffee was refilled.

Mel dipped into the omelet and brought it to her mouth. It melted there, rich and delicious. “Mmmm,” she said, letting her eyes close. After she swallowed she said, “I’ve eaten here twice, and I have to say the food is some of the best I’ve ever had.”

“Me and Preacher—we can whip up some good food, sometimes. Preacher has a real gift. And he wasn’t a cook until he got up here.”

She took another bite. Apparently Jack was going to stand there through her meal and watch her devour every bite. “So,” she said, “what’s the story on the doctor and Mrs. McCrea?”

“Well, let’s see,” he said, leaning his back on the counter behind the bar, his arms wide, big hands braced on either side of him. “They tend to bicker. Two opinionated, stubborn old farts who can’t agree on anything. The fact of the matter is, I think Doc could use help—but I imagine you gathered he’s a bit on the obstinate side.”

She made an affirmative noise, her mouth full of the most wonderful eggs she’d ever eaten.

“The thing about this little town is—sometimes days go by without anyone needing medical attention. Then there will be weeks when everyone needs to see Doc— a flu going around while three women are about to give birth, and right then someone will fall off a horse or roof. So it goes. And although he doesn’t like to admit it, he is seventy.” Jack gave a shrug. “Next town doctor is at least a half hour away and for rural people out on farms and ranches, over an hour. The hospital is farther yet. Then, we have to think about what will happen when Doc dies, which hopefully won’t be too soon.”

She swallowed and took a drink of water. “Why has Mrs. McCrea taken on this project?” she asked. “Is she really trying to replace him, as he says?”

“Nah. But because of his age, it’s about time for some kind of protégé, I would think. Hope’s husband left her enough so she’ll be comfortable—she’s been widowed a long time now, I gather. And she seems to do whatever she can to keep the town together. She’s also looking for a preacher, a town cop and a schoolteacher, grades one through eight, so the little ones don’t have to bus two towns over. She hasn’t had much success.”

“Doctor Mullins doesn’t seem to appreciate her efforts,” Mel said, blotting her lips with the napkin.

“He’s territorial. He’s in no way ready for retirement. Maybe he’s worried that someone will show up and take over, leaving him with nothing to do. Man like Doc, never married and in service to a town all his life, would balk at that. But… see… There was an incident a few years ago, just before I got here. Two emergencies at the same time. A truck went off the road and the driver was critically injured, and a kid with a bad case of flu that turned to pneumonia stopped breathing. Doc stopped the bleeding on the truck driver, but by the time he got across the river to the kid, he was too late.”

“God,” she said. “Bet that leaves some hard feelings.”

“I don’t think anyone really blames him. He’s saved some lives in his time here. But the feeling he could use some help gets more support.” He smiled. “You’re the first one to show up.”

“Hmm,” she said, taking a last sip of coffee. She heard the door open behind her and a couple of men walked in.

“Harv. Ron,” Jack said. The men said hello and sat at a table by the window. Jack looked back at Mel. “What made you come up here?” he asked.

“Burnout,” she said. “I got sick of being on a firstname basis with cops and homicide detectives.”

“Jesus, just what kind of work did you do?”

“Ever been to war?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact,” he replied with a nod.

“Well, big-city hospitals and trauma centers get like that. I spent years in the emergency room in downtown L.A. while I was doing my post-grad work to become a family nurse practitioner, and there were days it felt like a battle zone. Felons transported to E.R. after incurring injuries during arrest—people who were still so out of control and impossible to subdue that three or four cops had to hold them down while one of the nurses tried to start an IV. Addicts with so much junk in them, three hits with an officer’s Taser wouldn’t even slow ‘em down, much less a dose of Narcan. O.D.s, victims of violent crimes and, given it was the biggest trauma center in L.A., some of the ugliest MVAs and GSWs… Sorry. Motor vehicle accidents and gunshot wounds. And crazy people with no supervision, nowhere to go, off their meds and… Don’t get me wrong, we did some good work. Excellent work. I’m real proud of what we got done. Best staff in, maybe, America.”

She gazed off for a second, thinking. The environment was wild and chaotic, yet while she was working with and falling in love with her husband, it was exciting and fulfilling. She gave her head a little shake and went on.

“I transferred out of E.R. to women’s health, which I found was what I’d been looking for. Labor and delivery. I went to work on my certification in midwifery. That turned out to be my true calling, but it wasn’t always a sweeter experience.” She laughed sadly and shook her head. “My first patient was brought in by the police and I had to fight them like a bulldog to get the cuffs off. They wanted me to deliver her while she was handcuffed to the bed.”

He smiled. “Well, you’re in luck. I don’t think there’s a pair of handcuffs in town.”

“It wasn’t like that every day, but it was like that often. I supervised the nurses on the L&D ward for a couple of years. The excitement and unpredictability zooped me up for a long time, but I finally hit a wall. I love women’s health, but I can’t do city medicine like that anymore. God, I need a slower pace. I’m wiped out.”

“That’s an awful lot of adrenaline to leave behind,” he said.

“Yeah, I’ve been accused of being an adrenaline junky. Emergency nurses often are.” She smiled at him. “I’m trying to quit.”

“Ever live in a small town?” he asked, refilling her coffee.

She shook her head. “Smallest town I’ve ever lived in had at least a million people in it. I grew up in Seattle and went to Southern California for college.”